When Worlds Collide
by Kefra
Summary: What do Yoh and Anna think of each other when they're not together? Is what they have indeed love, or some lesser form of affection? And will a little misunderstanding tear them apart? Rated M for a ripe YohxAnna lemon. Please read and review!
1. Venus

Here's my full disclosure. "When Worlds Collide" is NOT an entirely new fanfic. In fact, the first three chapters are exactly the same as Kisses #12 through #14 from my collection of short stories, "A Shower of Kisses." What IS new is the last chapter. I had to censor the version that appeared in "A Shower of Kisses," because I promised not to include any explicit sexual situations. This version, presented here, has no such restrictions. In other words, if you already read Kisses #12 through #14 from "A Shower of Kisses," feel free to skip to chapter 4 here, and just read the new ending.

Regardless, I hope you enjoy this!

Oh right, one last note. Chapter I is from Anna's point of view; Chapter II is Yoh's; and Chapter III is third-person omniscient. (Chapter 4 is a continuation of Chapter III, but to prevent it from becoming overlong I split them up...Once you read that far, you'll see another reason for the breakup, hehe)

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_"I won't say a word…Silent but strong, yeah, I'm playing that card, and you're noticing nothing again…"_

_-Taking Back Sunday, "This Photograph is Proof"_

I.

Venus

Call it what you will, but I've never had very many friends. I like to delude myself, sometimes, that a lack of social prowess comes part and parcel with being a shaman, but I see my fiancé going on daily jaunts with Manta, Horohoro, Ren and Ryu, and every time I hear his innocent laugh I feel another bit of me die inside.

The desolation gets old fast, believe it or not. In my defense, I never was given much of a chance. Between being orphaned, fending off a demon that possessed me for years, and training, I never had much time to sharpen my social skills. Not that the lack thereof made much difference; after all, would _you_ care to associate much with some weird girl who for all you know would sprout horns and spit fire at every bystander in a fifty-foot radius, no matter how socially charming she was?

If I sound a little resentful, then you don't know the half of it. On the other hand, a lack of a social life has its moments—it affords me lots of time to think. My thoughts mostly occur before the television, another perk of my solitude. It is there upon the sofa, when I watch the hourly melodramas unfold in that campy, overacted way only soap operas can deliver, that I can shake off my worries and supplant them with fictional ones.

Anxiety arises naturally as a result of thinking. In my case, given the hours on end I'm afforded to think, the troubles swarm in the hive of my brain, and oftentimes I find myself unable to sleep, the buzz of anxiety echoing in my head, its jarring frequency almost sending my pillow vibrating. I worry the money will run out and even our meager existence as we know it will cease. I fret over the possibility that Hao, precious little that I know about him, will one day find his way to my bedroom. I'm concerned with the unknowns that abound in my knowledge of Hao. But most of all, I worry about Yoh.

You could say that in our relationship, Yoh definitely got the short end of the stick. He's the one who cooks, cleans, conditions himself and walks on eggshells whenever I'm around. He's the one who's liable to get chewed out, even when we both know damn well who's at fault. Yoh, lest we forget, is in clear and present danger so long as he remains a contender for the title of Shaman King. Just about every wannabe who's ever so much as cracked a joke to a ghost from Kyoto to Konigsberg wants to take Yoh down a peg.

When I say "lest _we_ forget," I'm not including myself.

I could never forget.

You wouldn't be able to forget either if the man you loved came back from a weekend excursion tattooed with virulent bruises and smears of blood. You _definitely_ wouldn't forget if it was the same story week after week. And those recurring visions of him unmoving in a ditch somewhere, with shattered limbs horribly bent back on themselves…People often say Yoh puts his ass on the line every day while I just mind the store back home. I won't deny that, but if you think it's easy having a solid sixteen hours a day to ponder whether or not the one you love will make it home alive, day in and day out, think again.

Yes, I love Yoh. Surprising, perhaps. But if soap operas have taught me anything, it's that losing someone you've become attached to will devastate you. I love Yoh, but in a platonic, almost sisterly sense. Any more deeply and my anxieties would choke me in my sleep.

I love him, but I could go without him.

That's my story and I'm sticking with it.

A good indicator of my anxiety, of my denial, is the extent to which I find sitting still unbearable. That would explain my aimless meandering through the deserted halls and rooms of the En Inn. I straighten a rug here and realign a painting there, my fingers subconsciously shaking, trying not to think about how much the painting of a tree in autumn, suffused in the deep orange of late afternoon, looks a bit like a young man wearing tangerine headphones, copiously dripping blood onto the canvas…

Come to think of it, everything reminds me a little of Yoh, actually. That's a bad thing when you're already one step from a nervous breakdown. "Relax," I tell myself shakily, "Yoh just left to buy some groceries. So he's been gone three hours, maybe he ran into Manta on the way or something. It's just the supermarket; what could go wrong?"

Even to my desperate ears the smugness of my voice sounds strained and artificial. I know full well that the danger Yoh faces doesn't diminish even when he's sleeping in the room next to mine; compared to that, the supermarket is like a convention of Death Row inmates…across the street from a gun factory.

Why am I so anxious? I shuffle like a zombie to the refrigerator, my mind racing against my will, and the cold air wafts against the hem of my skirt, ethereally chilling, like prying open an unearthed coffin. My clammy fingers close around the top of a Coke bottle, prying off its cap with a preoccupied flick of my wrist, and I raise it to my lips willing myself to believe it's an elixir, a philter to ward off my fears.

It's refreshingly cool and almost sickly sweet, but it's no magic potion. Sooner than the mouthful of cola is down my gullet, the doubts resurface. I sigh and pull out a chair for myself at the kitchen table, resigned to listening to my inner voice.

Just outside the window, the sunset begins in earnest. The Zen rock garden is magnificent in its golden splendor, its smooth stones fiery red in the dusk, resembling a bed of hot coals. The cirrus clouds near the horizon form puffy pink lines against a prismatic background that darkens from delicate azure to deep maroon. All in all, it's a magnificent view, but the sight of those clouds crisscrossing upon a color that's all too much like bruised flesh spoils it somewhat. My memory flashes back several weeks until I pinpoint why the sunset is so upsetting…

One of Yoh's adorable habits is the tuneless, atrociously off-key singing he always performs in the shower. When I don't hear him killing the chorus of a Soul Bob song at the top of his lungs, then I know the coast is clear for me to soak in the bathtub for a bit. One day about three weeks ago, the house had been oddly silent; I think I had forgotten that Yoh was even home. I walked into the bathroom oblivious, with a robe tucked under one arm and a newspaper under the other, completely unaware of the cloaked figure behind the shower curtain.

I'm not sure why I hadn't just left the room once I saw the specter of his body toweling off behind the curtain, but in any case before I could leave, the shower curtain whipped to one side, revealing a dripping Yoh completely in the nude. I think we both screamed; he scrambled like mad and made to cover his waist with a towel, but I remained rooted to the spot, unable to shake free what I had just seen…and not for the obvious reason, either.

There's no denying that Yoh's rigorous training for the Shaman Fight left him in very nice physical condition; I have to confess part of me couldn't stop staring because, as he gaped at me with horrified, wide eyes, with his matted black hair trellising down to his collarbone and dripping beads of water onto his chest, Yoh was _very _cute. But that aspect of Yoh's physical appearance was more or less what I had expected; I had never seen him in the altogether before, but his build was just as sleek as I had imagined it would be.

But I had never spared a thought to what might be lurking beneath those clothes other than taut muscles, and that revelation absolutely stunned me. His biceps and shoulders were tattooed with a network of scars, some light, some deep, some old and completely healed, some still tender and rosy. A truly horrific bruise of the deepest vermillion marred the flesh over his right ribcage, and the opposite side of his chest sported a heroic gash that ran nearly from nipple to belly button. It had not quite healed yet and I could see the oozing pink skin where the scab had begun to peel. And at that moment I felt the injuries that Yoh had suffered personally, as though it had been _my_ arms butchered by claws and daggers and near-misses, _my _ribs sundered by a twenty-ton behemoth, _my_ chest incised by a ten-foot spear…

And Yoh's innocence, his offhandedness, the naïveté, were thrust at me in stark contrast to the injuries he had sustained by the tender age of fifteen, more than most haggard war veterans have seen upon their deathbeds. He whispered—and I saw a fresh gash on his neck that bulged out with his Adam's apple as he swallowed delicately—"Anna…I'm sorry…" as though _he_ had done something wrong, like _he_ had walked in on _me_ bathing, like _he_ had been the one watching TV for hours while I had brushes with death on a daily basis…

I could say absolutely nothing; it felt as though _my _throat had been assaulted. I wanted to cry out, to support that earnest face against my chest as I did my best to assuage the anguish of his injuries with my touch, but for some reason I remained motionless and speechless. I wanted to tell him _I _was the sorry one, that I couldn't bear seeing my love so badly battered, much less even begin to contemplate what it might be like with him gone…

More than anything else, I fear that, were I more expressive of my concern, my love, for Yoh, it would simply interfere with his laid-back lifestyle. I know he operates best with a carefree mind, and if he had to constantly worry about a loved one, as I do, his performance would suffer. Do I want him to know I love him? No.

Maybe…

It does beg the question, doesn't it?

Do I want to know if _he_ loves _me_?

No.

Maybe…

A lifetime of isolation has hardened me prematurely, and I often lose sight that Yoh's barely old enough to be a high school student. He certainly seems mature enough to be capable of love, but for whom, and on what level? Does he regard me as a close friend, a mentor, or even a personal trainer of sorts? Or…something more?

It's harder than you will ever know for me to be so draconian with Yoh. It's a bit like being the proverbial kid in a candy store, except the kid in my version also has to throw away every last sweet with her own two hands. The way he sometimes acts so _strangely_ around me, I find adorable, but to react any more strongly than with an impassive glare would be letting on too much, I think…Somehow the idea that my presence makes him nervous in that manner so particular to teenage love excites me. This morning he kept looking at me out of the corners of his eyes, almost as though there were a surprise in store for me that I would discover any moment.

But there will be no surprises, at least none for Yoh. I have my duty as the future Shaman King's wife to do everything in my power to help him achieve his goal, and love merely complicates things. If I must exercise restraint and torment myself with a love that will remain platonic and unexpressed at best and unrequited at worst, then I shall; my love for Yoh runs deep enough.

I put down my bottle of Coke; I had finished it long ago but clutched it still, fantasizing that the ridges upon the glass were the scars on Yoh's bicep…I pick up a portrait from the coffee table, handsomely framed in a filigreed gold-plated frame, with a beauty and grace surpassed only by the photograph within its boundaries. I imagine myself materializing on the other side of the glass, feeling the gentle bristle of his pointy hair, but could not. I merely gaze longingly into the picture, and the youngest Asakura stares back at me with relaxed, almost lazy eyes, and upon his lips shines a casual grin.

I press the photograph tightly to my bosom, feeling the frosty glass warm against my heart. "Please…come home safely, Yoh." My breath obscures the portrait with fog, but I close my eyes and feel my lips press upon the blurry glass, and, before I can feel bashful about the ridiculousness of kissing an inanimate object, the picture returns to the coffee table, signed with lipstick, a token of love that only I and Yoh's picture can ever know about.

It will have to do, for now…


	2. Mars

II.

Mars

I never understood why they make shopping baskets as uncomfortable to hold as possible. Now, while I stare blankly at the hundreds of cartons of eggs laid out in the freezer like some kind of chicken coffin, the bare metal wires for handles dig into the pad of my palm. It's a bit uncomfortable.

In my other hand is Anna's shopping list, and even if the ink on it weren't running, her famously illegible handwriting is smeared all over the scrap of paper, and I squint at the next unchecked item, which for all I can tell says "Organ Jesus."

I sigh into the coffin-like freezer before me, and my breath becomes visible, swirling around before coming to rest atop a dozen grade-A eggs. I look around, make sure no one else is present, and surreptitiously open the carton, making sure none of the eggs are cracked. Previous experience has taught me that few things can set Anna off like bringing home a carton of dripping, shattered eggs.

Now that I mention it, lots of things are apt to set Anna off. I really do try to please her, but for some reason or other it either goes unnoticed or fails to work. I know I'm a few noodles short of a bowl of ramen, but my heart is in the right place.

And so it goes…

I turn my attention to the shopping list again, squinting at "Organ Jesus" and trying to will it to become some food product available at an everyday supermarket. I frown, I rotate the paper, I play with the letters in my head, until it hits me.

"Orange juice?"

With a flourish of satisfaction, I unclip the pen from my pocket and scribble a check mark next to it. I pass a display of canned soup and cut through the cereal aisle to place a carton of Sixty Second Maid™ orange juice into my shopping basket.

In many ways the carton of juice reminds me of Anna; it's at its best when chilled, it's acerbic, but in a way that wakes you up.

I think of her all the time, in case you haven't noticed by now. And it's not just because I sting (sometimes literally) from the way she's harsh with me sometimes. Corny as it sounds, I can't help but think of her as my inspiration. I can say that I've learned more from a month of her tutoring than I ever will from my formal education. I surprise myself now, remembering vocabulary words that no other teacher could ever have made stick. Fear may not be a widely accepted pedagogical tool ("pedagogical," now there's a classic thousand-yen word, thanks, Anna), but hey, I can't argue with the results. And let's be perfectly honest; if it weren't for the fear she strikes into my heart, I never would've gotten my ass in gear in preparation for the Shaman Fight.

No amount of preparation, however, mental or physical, could improve my chances of getting through Anna's shopping list any faster. I focus my attention on the next item on the list, which, as far as I can determine, is "Corn," followed by what really looks like a swear word.

"Next time, Anna tells me what to get, and I write it down," I promise to myself. "Now, Corn…Freaks? Flocks? Flecks? Oh! Flakes!"

The shopping always unfolds this way, something of a game. The list is cryptic, and I search within myself to find the solution. Luckily, I'm accustomed to such things. God knows that figuring out Anna's mood is a puzzle far tougher than any crossword I'll ever see. She just stares at you with those slits for eyes, and you feel your insides turning to blocks of ice, organ by organ, and you don't know whether next she'll hug you or throttle you. Usually the latter, in my personal experience.

It's partly because Anna is always so emotionally numb and distant that I feel so nervous around her. I'm much more comfortable dealing with people who visibly become angry, than with people who think a freezing glare is the facial equivalent of a little black dress. I'm pretty good at defusing anger; it's one of the perks of being naturally laid back, as it tends to be contagious. But Anna's anger is like a stealth bomber. You see its shadow and you don't quite know what to do. Sometimes it's just passing overhead, other times it drops its payload on your head, but in either case it continues to fly on, unchanged, unwavering.

And speaking of little black dresses, I think her fashion echoes her personality. Always the conservative outfit, so passé, so predictable, yet that is its greatest strength. Emotional constipation matched in clothing that also betrays absolutely no feelings whatsoever. Happy occasion? Black dress. Personal tragedy? Black dress. Hell, when the day comes for us to exchange vows, she'll probably put on that black dress, glare at the best man, glare at the priest, glare at me and utter a bone-chilling "I do."

Now that is a topic I don't think about often. It's hard for me to believe I'm engaged. I'm probably the least likely candidate for marriage, period, much less at my age. Sure, I know how to cook and do laundry, all that good stuff. But frankly, marriage doesn't seem like it would suit me well. I don't have a fear of commitment per se, but I think being cuffed to the old ball and chain would severely curtail my leisure time, and for a slacker like me, leisure time is oxygen. Anna would suffocate me figuratively (she already does literally, after all). And then there is the pressing issue of love.

Does she or doesn't she?

And equally important—do I or don't I?

I mean, I do, I think, but at the same time it's mostly guesswork on my part. As I've mentioned, she's not exactly the most emotionally expressive girl I know, and when she does show emotion, it's usually anger, more specifically anger that's directed at me. And every so often I can see something in her—the eyes that soften almost imperceptibly, the arms that uncross from her chest, the glare that's replaced by sort of an uncertain grimace. Is it pity, is it me reading too much into meaningless nervous tics, or is it something approaching love?

Nonetheless, her cold reception, if anything, spurs me on. Sort of like the girl who plays hard to get. I have to say it's pretty discouraging to see most of my efforts go unnoticed, though.

I've got an ace up my sleeve, actually. For the entire last week I've been using my spare time to put together a little surprise for her. I put it in a nice envelope and slid it under her pillow this morning. Maybe she'll notice it…

I, meanwhile, notice that I've advanced to the cashier in the check-out line. I recognize her; my classmate Megumi seems to always be on duty when it comes time to go grocery shopping. She gives a little nod as she sees me, beginning to scan bar codes. "How's it going, Yoh?"

I wonder if I look distraught from mulling over Anna for so long. "Huh? Oh, hey, Megumi, I'm all right, I guess…How are you?"

The price scanner gives a malfunctioning squeal; she frowns and punches in a code manually with the ten-key pad. "Fine, thanks. You know, if I may be so bold…you don't _look_ all right."

"Really?" I look at my reflection and start playing with my hair, jostling my headphones a bit. I play with my shirt collar. I shift my necklace a little to the right. "Is that better?"

Megumi rolls her eyes. "Yoh, you're so cute. I see why Anna is so possessive of you..."

"Er…" I feel myself blushing slightly, but she notices something else…

"Oh, is that what's on your mind? Troubles with Anna?"

I sigh deeply, feeling my lungs deflate like punctured balloons. "Something like that, yeah."

She gives a nervous glance around. I'm the last customer in line, and her supervisor isn't nearby, so she slows her pace dramatically, deliberately scanning each item, weighing the produce as though it's solid gold and the slightest mistake will bankrupt the store. "Well…talk to me, Yoh. You're always so quiet in school. Or napping."

I give a little smirk at her gentle jab. "Anna…well, she…"

"Come on, I don't have all day. I'm almost halfway done ringing you up."

"I…" Out of the corner of my eye I see a lady trying to make up her mind which checkout to go to. It forces my hand…or at least my voice. "All right. Does Anna ever talk about…guys when she's around you?"

I thought I asked the question smoothly, but Megumi broke into a coy grin, and with her free hand she pointed at me like a kid might at a feces-throwing monkey. "You're worried that your fiancée doesn't love you!"

"So what if I am?" Oops. The words just kind of escaped me before I could think. Megumi gave a giggle, complete with head bobs.

"Well, I'd say half of Class B knows that Anna cares for you."

My eyes widen involuntarily. "Why's that?"

"They've all faced the wrath of Anna's famous left. Yuko made a crack once in front of Anna. She said, if stupidity was cabbage, you'd be a family-size _okonomiyaki_. And Anna put down her pen, stood up and"—Megumi slams her palm against the countertop, narrowly missing my carton of eggs—"and then Kentaro asked her, why are you hitched to some lazy loser like Yoh, and Kentaro's a big guy, you know him, but Anna just glared at him, reared back and smacked him full on the face. He flew five feet, I swear!"

"Wow…so…" This new information is certainly food for thought. I think I may have some time to ponder its implications, but Megumi's already brimming with new insights. She's a very talkative girl, really.

"I'd watch your back if I were you. I mean, I hear the guys talking about it, like, every day." She hasn't scanned anything in a full minute, and she suddenly remembers she's on company time. The carton of orange juice appears in her hand as she continues, "I agree with them. I'm jealous of Anna's looks, and a lot of guys go for the hard-to-get attitude, you know?"

See? Megumi thinks so too. I'm not stupid! Not this time, anyway. Shut up.

"But a lot of them feel that you're…well, you don't _appreciate_ Anna in the ways they can."

Before I can realize that my hands have balled up at my sides, and before I feel the rush of anger choking my brain, I blurt out, "That's ridiculous! Anna's difficult sometimes, but I love her!"

There is absolute silence. I can hear the pulse ringing in my ears, and I feel the distinct heat of blushing in my cheeks. Megumi looks a bit ruffled, but she recovers, nods, and begins to package my groceries. "I know you do, Yoh. Just watch yourself out there. Not everyone has the respect they should have for you. Whenever a girl's involved, nothing is too dangerous."

I simply nod as I slide a few bills across the counter. The change jingles in my pockets as I clasp my fingers around the plastic bag handles. "See you at school, Megumi."

"Stay safe, Yoh."

Now I can't help but be a little paranoid. My eyes shift between the long shadows in the supermarket parking lot. It's nice to know that Anna stands up for me at school in ways I didn't even know about until now, but Megumi raises a distressing point. A skinny kid like me is pretty physically weak, after all, and without Harusame in my hand or Amidamaru behind me, I'm apt to get my skull bashed in by a jealous classmate off campus…

I should reveal, at this time, that I left my sword in my room back at the En Inn. And my spirit ally is probably off swapping war stories with Tokagero somewhere. In any case, neither of them is accompanying me at this moment.

It's interesting to note, also, that at this very second, I'm hurtling through the air like a sack of potatoes, and a scrawny one at that. My flight seems to unfold in slow motion, the way it does in any action movie worth its salt. I feel, from fingertips that seem disconnected from the rest of my body, the packages slipping from my grasp; I feel my airborne body somersault, and I careen forward with the world around me strangely blurred and upside-down. Sometime around then I flail my arms wildly, as though trying to grasp the world by its handles and turn it right-side-up. Then, as the ground falls up to me, a final thought enters my mind, replacing _This is going to hurt like a bitch_:

_What the hell just happened?!_

Time reverts to its usual pace, and I roll over with milliseconds to spare. Having been flung like a ragdoll numerous times in my career as Shaman King contender, I know how to cushion my falls. I tumble into a concrete wall, sprawled on my back, but spring back to my feet by kicking off the gravelly floor.

The head of an elongated shadow mixes with the viscous, clear, yellow-polka-dotted puddle a few feet in front of me. _The eggs! Anna's going to kill me._ Bits of sugar-coated confetti drift past me as the wind blows through my badly battered box of corn flakes. A crisp crunch not unlike the snapping of a fresh twig echoes down the alley as a black boot stomps my bunch of celery.

I look up from the boot and swallow hard. And when I say look _up_, I mean it. The waistline of his worn jeans is about level with the bottom of my ribcage. To see the collar of his extra-large T-shirt (which, I might add, doesn't look at all baggy), I already have to crane my neck upwards slightly. His face looks familiar, but then again, all obscenely muscular people tend to look the same to me. I deduce that this behemoth is solely responsible for the impromptu acrobatic act I just performed, but any resentment I feel over this is silenced by his bulk. What I don't know is why he felt so inclined to send me catapulting through the air.

I figure, as far as I can tell at least, that I'm not bleeding or crippled yet, so I try to play it cool. It's one of my strengths, anyway. "Nice distance, but you're gonna lose some points. I didn't stick the landing."

From about a foot above me, he sneers. And I mean he _sneers_. When I try, it looks like I've got something stuck between my teeth; on the other hand, he looks truly menacing. Or even more so, I should say. "I don't know what's funnier. You, or the comically large putty knife they're going to need to scrape you off the sidewalk once we're through."

A smart joke. Just my luck to run into the one thug this side of Tokyo with brains _and_ brawn. I'm outclassed both physically and mentally. It doesn't look like the play-it-cool approach is going to make much headway, but I take one last stab at it. "Actually, it happened to my friend. The putty knife was exactly seventy-eight and three-quarter inches long. Now you know."

I thought it was pretty witty, but unless my assailant expresses his laughter by grabbing people's shoulders with a death grip, he didn't find it very humorous at all. "I'll cut the crap, Asakura. Anna's hot. And for some reason she likes you instead of tough guys like me. But I'm thinking, maybe your fiancée will realize what a helpless loser you are if, say, you don't make it home tonight. Or, for that matter, ever."

Let this be a lesson to you: It's always about a girl. Believe it.

I'm starting to realize, with the viselike hand grinding my shoulder to bone meal, that it might not be the best time for bravado. It's also dawning on me that, although my Shaman training has left me in pretty decent physical shape, my little muscles are only going to result in needing slightly larger than a 78¾-inch putty knife to remove me from the pavement…

So I do what anybody would in my position. I play for time. Delaying the inevitable always works in the movies, so why not? "Don't waste your time beating me up. It's not going to work. Anna's just going to visit me in the hospital, nothing will change. I'll never hear the end of it, but she loves me. That's just the way it is."

Speaking those words makes me feel strange. I just made them up on the spot, hoping to buy my body another minute of wonderful, non-pulverized existence, but for some reason they just felt right coming off my tongue, as though they were more true than I had ever realized before…

"You don't think I thought of that already?" His voice snaps me out of my thoughts. It's a really distinctive one, educated but also coarse and intimidating, and I know I've heard it before.

I am sorely tempted to answer "No," but my desire to avoid becoming a Yohburger restrains me.

"Ah yes, Anna is as good as mine. I'm sure you're not that upset. Certainly you understand why this was necessary…"

At those words I feel the hairs on the back of my neck bristle. By "this," I assume he's referring to a punch, or kick, or some combination of the two, but instead, he releases the death grip on my shoulder and reaches into his back pocket. Instinctively, I see this as a lowering of his guard. I feel adrenaline course through my veins, and I feel almost like some kind of hero from a popular anime! "Anna," I think, "remember when you slapped Kentaro for me? It's my turn."

My fist catches him just beneath his jaw. The satisfying crack of teeth gnashing together fills the air, and tiny droplets of spittle and blood spew from the corners of his taut mouth. His eyes close and blur as his head recoils. For a brief moment I think maybe the shadowboxing Anna makes me do twice a week has paid dividends…

Nothing. Not even a soft grunt of discomfort, and the giant is reoriented. I hear his mocking laughter, and then I discover that the phrase "knock the wind out of" isn't just a figure of speech.

There are no other words that can better describe this phenomenon. Blow up a paper bag and imagine it's one of your lungs. Then kick it as hard as you can. And multiply that by, oh, about 16.3. In that one instant when his steel-toed boot meets my ribs, I feel instantly winded, and I choke and sputter. Not to mention my back slamming the wall afterwards. I could've done without that part too.

I'm not going to make it sound heroic. I'm crumpled on the gritty alley floor. It seems that when I decided to pay back Anna's debt, I forgot one minor detail. Guys aren't supposed to hit girls. I, on the other hand, am protected by no such unwritten rule.

I push myself off the ground. Nothing really hurts yet, although I know it's only a matter of time before the rush wears off and my ribs start feeling like ground beef. I still have no idea how I'm going to take this golem of a classmate down, so I anchor my left leg and throttle my right at him. I may as well have kicked the wall instead; it probably would have hurt my foot less.

There is sudden warmth dripping down my upper lip and onto my chin, and I know even before my curious finger comes away coated with blood that I've been punched in the face. It's scary how impervious the human body becomes to pain when you're in mortal danger. My vision, though, has taken a turn for the worse. My adversary splits in two, and both images are advancing on me now, two fists rearing back, and I dive in the nick of time. I look up, and the second image changes.

It is Anna.

She is facing me, watching my bloodied and battered figure. She sees me take a knee to the gut, emotionless, as my body hurls, doubled over, backwards. I take another cheap shot to the face, and her slightly pouty lips seem to insult me even as they remain shut. Pain begins to erupt through my flesh and dig into my bones, and I know I can only take so much more of this. A snap kick to the chest decks me, and as I collapse onto my back I see Anna's eyes narrow, glaring at me mercilessly…

I stumble to my feet, blind with one final jolt of adrenaline. I'm vaguely aware that I'm screaming something and running forward, but my field of vision is washed out. "FOR ANNA!!!" is my battle cry, and I feel my fists impacting flesh, digging in, with strength that certainly wasn't mine. My legs join in without me even thinking to, and soon I cannot think at all, my mind takes on a life of its own, and Anna draws closer, wearing a beautiful smile. She whispers, "See? We're so much stronger together," and corny music starts playing in the background, and she makes some kind of comment about my heroism, followed by a passionate kiss that floods my lips with warmth and takes away all the bruises and lacerations and bleeding, then cut to credits…

I really am a hopeless romantic sometimes. But slowly the adrenaline rush subsides and I realize there are no end credits, there is no fanfare, and there certainly is no Anna. There's just a bunch of ruined groceries and a big guy facedown in a puddle of raw egg whites. The warmth on my lips isn't from the kiss I wish had been real. It's just blood, still dripping from my busted nose.

"Just another day in the life. Now for the really painful part, getting chewed out by Anna."

On my way out of the alley, I spot the object that he had pulled out of his pocket just before I got pummeled. I turn it over in my hands and open it. It's his wallet.

"What was it? 'I'm sure you see why this was necessary' or something like that? It's just a wallet…" I mutter to myself, my voice sounding oddly stuffy from my bloody nose. I don't understand; there's nothing out of the ordinary in it except for an envelope that looks oddly familiar…


	3. Eclipse

III.

Eclipse

Night had blanketed the scene nearly an hour ago, but still Anna sat in the darkness, holding a sheet of paper creased twice horizontally. She still held it in her ghostly pale fingers despite the fact that it was too dark to read anymore, not that she needed it to refresh her memory. Its words seemed permanently etched into her gray matter, and she held the sheet only out of inertia and disbelief. Then, almost against her will, she squinted at the words again, trying to find some out-of-place word, some proof that it was a joke, a forgery, a trick of the light, but only intensifying her grief when she failed…

Less than half a mile away, the shadowy figure of Yoh hobbled down the dim sidewalk, periodically mopping blood from his upper lip or clutching at the throbbing wounds that peppered his body. His collared white shirt had lost a few buttons and threads, but gained an unsettling assortment of dull red stains and a couple of choice boot prints. Were the lighting better, passersby would have seen all of this, plus the grim, steely determination cemented in his eyes that belied his overwhelming sense of malaise. The resolute quality of his eyes was from residual adrenaline, not confidence, and he dreaded facing Anna in this state—two hours late, empty-handed, and visibly on the ass end of an ass-kicking.

Somewhere between them, a ghostly samurai drifted faster than the wind, floating above houses and streetlights, looking for the pair of orange headphones he had come to respect as his vassal. Amidamaru's sixth sense was better than most spirits', and he had sensed a disturbance from his master not too long ago. Frantically his form darted from rooftop to rooftop, squinting in the twilight for that tangerine flash to show itself. He spotted it, but stopped himself from impulsively making his presence known.

Something wasn't quite right.

Amidamaru took in the disheveled, oddly mussed appearance of Yoh's hairdo, but as his glances drifted lower he grew increasingly alarmed. There was definitely a loping, injured appearance to his strides, and he was reasonably sure that both of his knees were poking out of his tattered olive-green pants. And it had certainly not been raining, so the dark droplets that stained his shirt had to be—

"Yoh-dono!" beseeched Amidamaru, who bent over so sharply that his ghostly visage was nearly brushing the sidewalk. "Forgive me, Lord Yoh, I began searching for you as soon as I sensed something was amiss—"

Yoh turned around, and his hardened gaze softened to a cordial look. He gave something that looked halfway between a broad smile and an excruciating wince. "Hey, Amidamaru. Just goes to show how important you are to me, huh?" he asked, sweeping his hand before himself. The samurai recoiled when he saw the crimson oozing from his nostrils and the blackness that was engulfing his left eye socket. He bowed lower still, so that the hairs of his stylish topknot disappeared into the concrete.

"I have failed you, Yoh-dono."

But Yoh gave a carefree smile that wiped the defeated expression off Amidamaru's face. "You could never fail me. How many times have you saved me? I'm pretty sure you're allowed to let me get a little abused now and then."

"I owe you far more than the information I am about to relay," he said conspiratorially, cupping an ethereal hand to one side of his mouth, "but I warn you: Anna-san is not happy with you at the moment. Choose your words carefully."

Yoh just shrugged, but his casual gesture triggered a wave of pain through his torso. "What else is new?" he asked sarcastically. "I'm sure it'll work out. I don't think you should be around to see this…"

Amidamaru gave a slight bow and vanished; they had arrived at the gates to the En Inn, where shadows ominously swayed upon the walkway leading to the entrance. Yoh felt rather much like a condemned criminal leading a procession to the gallows; he even hung his neck slightly, as though expecting the floor beneath his wobbly feet to dematerialize at any moment, tauting an invisible rope around his windpipe…

A bloodstained hand coiled weakly around the front door; Yoh knew it would be useless to call out to Anna, and swung the door open meekly. He saw a figure smartly dressed in black, sitting on a stool that faced the entrance, holding a sheet of creased paper. It uncrossed its legs and drew its head back slightly, and even in the utter darkness Yoh could see the arctic eyes glistening, could feel vitriolic icicles stabbing his own eyeballs…

"Where are the groceries?" Anna's cutting query echoed off the spartan walls, and it sent quivers up his spine. The sound had ceased but he heard it still in his mind, and he knew her cold fury wasn't about the missing plastic bags he had left behind in the alleyway.

"No, you don't have them. But you did bring me a present." Her gaze shifted to the black rectangle Yoh was twirling between his left thumb and forefinger. "If it's anything like the present you left me this morning, then you can shove it."

This last comment left Yoh completely at sea. With a frown, as though illuminating the room would help clear the confusion in his brain, he flicked the light switch, squinting as the yellow flood dilated his pupils. For a brief second he thought Anna's silent, enraged expression had given a gasp when she saw, highlighted in new brightness, the extent of the injuries decorating his body, but it was gone before he could blink.

"Although I suppose I am slightly impressed," said Anna as she stood up and took two long strides towards Yoh, "that you were apparently paying attention when we learned about poetry. Still, if this is your idea of a joke, then your sense of humor is even worse than your iambic pentameter."

Anna's outburst was the impetus for Yoh's brain to finally put the pieces together. _Surely you see why this was necessary_…the familiar-looking envelope he had found in the wallet…which had been, or so he thought, left under Anna's pillow that morning…except it wasn't…and the sheet of paper in Anna's enraged hands… "No! Anna, here—"

She gave an exasperated start. "You mug some guy at the supermarket and come home half-dead without anything to cook for dinner, _and _you leave me this stupid-ass poem, and _then_ you think you can _bribe_ me with your ill-gotten money and I'll suddenly jump on you and lick your goddamn wounds?"

Anna froze, a supremely furious expression stenciled on her visage, the folded sheet of paper an inch from Yoh's nose, her free fist clenched and devoid of color. Yoh likewise stood stock still, his bloodied mouth agape, swallowing up his own shallow, scared breaths, wishing he knew what to do. Suddenly he saw Anna's lips part slightly, and he felt an angry, hot warmth slowly dripping down the bridge of his nose.

"Fuck your poem," she hissed as the spittle wended down his stunned face. "Fuck what you think of me. And…"

Yoh was still rooted to the spot, his mind crammed full of things he knew he should say before Anna finished her sentence, any one of them, to stave off the despair that was quickly ensnaring his heart, but it was too late, his soul had already given up, and he began to feel moisture stinging at the corners of his eyes, joining the wet spot in the middle as they trickled down his scraped cheeks. The salt stung his lacerated skin, but not nearly as much as the end of Anna's sentence, which seemed to rend his entire chest in two:

"…Fuck you, Yoh."

There was nothing, absolutely nothing, that Yoh wouldn't have done at that instant to make those words ring false to his ears. He gladly would have unsheathed Harusame and plunged its blade into his devastated heart, if it meant he knew he was loved even as the last of his lifeblood spurted out of the gash. But he knew from the way Anna turned her back on him then, in an icy whirlwind of black, gold and red, that she meant what she had said.

The woman Yoh loved despised him, and he had never felt more alone than he did then, not three feet away from her. He felt his despondent heart beating feebly, begrudgingly, felt himself breathing in shuddering, irregular gasps, felt the will to live escaping from his pores. But he thought he might yet die from the despair that drowned him now, a helpless blight that refused to grant his besieged mind any refuge from dwelling upon the love that had been cruelly stolen from him. Free will vacated his thoughts and the wretchedness took over. Although her back was still turned to him, he could see nothing but Anna's face, fractured, as though from the viewpoint of a bug's eye, every copy sneering, glaring, cold and impassive, and now he saw hundreds of faces of Anna, all spitting upon him, endlessly looping. _Is this what it's like to be dead? No, death is better, there's no feeling at all…_

Yoh did not recall ever moving, but he found himself upstairs in the bathroom, no longer carrying the wallet, and his reflection made such an impression on him that his mind cleared for a second. The extent of his injuries didn't shock him much, but he saw the shiny streaks on his face where he had been crying. The sight of them seemed to grant him permission to stop biting his lip and bottling in his emotions. _That's what Anna would do…oh, Anna…Anna…_

Downstairs, Anna didn't hear Yoh's silent weeping, nor did she hear the soft pitter-patter of hot tears dripping onto tile. The hatred coursing through her veins made her temporarily deaf and incapable of rational thought. She did not hear the bloodcurdling howl that pierced the walls of the inn at that moment, did not see the confetti of a thoroughly shredded sheet of paper cascading to the floor in mock celebration. A flushed, blotchy hand clasped around the wallet someone had left on the table. It certainly wasn't her hand that launched it across the room at a handsomely framed portrait on the mantel. The sound of glass shattering, as piercing as the crystal shards that now pockmarked the wood floor, served to temper Anna's fury somewhat. The whiteness that blanketed her field of vision darkened, and she could see thousands of bits of glass, some of them tinted mauve where her lipstick had stained the pane. Lying atop the bed of shards was Yoh's portrait. She couldn't bear favoring it with a second glance.

She saw the wallet at that moment, at the far end of the room, propped upside-down against the wall. Mostly to distance herself from Yoh's ruined picture, she stalked over to it, snatching it up roughly, so that a wad of paper money serpentined out of it. She kicked it and sent a shower of hundred-yen notes briefly into the air. _Pathetic_, she thought, _if he's going to get himself beaten to__ within__ an inch of his life, he could at least have mugged someone richer._

Taking a deep breath that made her diaphragm tingle, she sighed and sat before the table. Anna ran a finger down the thick pad of papers that remained in the compartment, and pulled them out. _Coupons. Business cards. Receipts. An envelope…What is it with guys and envelopes? Well, I'm not touching that thing with a ten-foot _bo _staff. Fool me once, shame on you…_

She ruffled the plastic cards that lined both sides of the leather billfold with her thumb, tumbling them onto the countertop. _Library card, bus pass, a bunch of hotel keycards. Either this guy travels an awful lot, or he's a pervert…_A condom slid out of the wallet then, in a battered, wrinkled pouch, to which Anna made a revolted noise. _I knew it. Guys are all alike. At least by the looks of this thing, he hasn't had a chance to use __one__ in at least several months…__And a school ID_…The photograph was blurry and about the size of her thumbnail, but she squinted at it; somehow it seemed slightly familiar. She turned the scuffed card towards the light and frowned at the _kanji_ on its surface. "Shinra Private Academy, sophomore…"

She almost dropped the card. _Yoh mugged someone in _our class_?! What in God's name is wrong with that kid? Shit, I have enough popularity problems without being known as the psychotic __kid's__ fiancée…_Her eyes narrowed as she attempted to discern the identity of the boy in the photograph, but it was hopeless. She turned her attention to the name beneath the picture—and nearly fell out of her chair.

_Yoh mugged Daisuke?! But why? He's gotta be two hundred pounds, easy. And you can tell he's poor, every day he brings a sandwich for lunch in the same oil-stained paper bag. He takes a bite out of it and, with his mouth still full, keeps telling me how Yoh's a lazy bum, that I need someone like Daisuke instead, and he flexes his arm, like I'm supposed to be impressed that he can stand there for hours doing curls or whatever. God, what a douche. One of the only people I dislike more than Yoh._

_But wait…_

_Did Yoh know__ about all this_

_No, he can't have…was just random chance, besides, even a big guy like Daisuke wouldn't be a match for Yoh, not when he's got__ Amidamaru in__ Harusame—_

As if in response to her thoughts, the long velvet pouch that always sheathed Harusame appeared at the corner of her eye, tied shut at the top, the outline of the _katana_ clearly visible through its folds. It had been there all evening while Yoh had been at the supermarket…

_Something just doesn't add up! Why would Yoh write something so repugnant to me on the same day he decides to teach Daisuke a lesson? Does he hate me, is this all just remarkable coincidence, or…_

Her eyes involuntarily drifted to the envelope, folded over at both ends from where it had been crammed into Daisuke's wallet. It was then she noticed its similarity to the one she had discovered not two hours ago when she made the beds out of boredom. And the handwriting on it was distinctly the barely legible scrawl she had grown to begrudgingly appreciate as Yoh's.

_Could it be…I didn't think Daisuke had the brains to do something that devious, but then again, Yoh surprises me sometimes…_

With trembling fingertips Anna tore open the envelope's flap, withdrawing from it a single sheet of cotton paper. In handwriting that was much nicer than she had expected, yet still familiarly slanted and curvaceous, she read:

--

_Atop Funbari Hill in Tokyo_

_There is an Inn where you and I both go_

_Within its walls, we sleep, we drink, we eat_

_And from the windows, watch cars on the street._

_--_

_Your gaze __moves__ from the pane and on to me,_

_But without reason, none that I can see._

_I wonder why you haven't touched your food;_

_I hope you're not in one of your bad moods._

_--_

_Your eyes don't waver; still you stare in mine,_

_My breath is short; in truth, your eyes do shine._

_Without a word, a grin sprouts on your lips,_

_Inside my chest, I feel my heartbeat skip._

_--_

_Our meal proceeds without another hitch,_

_And while others say that you're a bitch,_

_That couldn't be more distant from the truth._

_I'd never think of being so uncouth;_

_--_

_In fact, I treasure smiles from you more dear_

_Since I don't know the way to make one appear._

_I wish you'd do it more, indeed, it's true,_

_So I thought this time to try something new._

_--_

_Will this put a smile on your face?_

_I knew I shouldn't have tried this in the first place._

_But I shall always try my best for you,_

_To see that smile, as fresh as morning dew…_

_--_

_I'm tired now, these rhymes have all been done,_

_I've energy for more, __but barely. J__ust this one:_

_As now,__ I feel as though I'm out of mana_

_It matters not, because I love you, Anna._

_--_

A foreign sensation of weightlessness seized Anna's chest, and she saw butterflies flitting in her field of vision as an onslaught of blood rushed to her head. Warmth such that she had never come close to experiencing before engulfed her every cell, and it showed upon her face. There was a definite radiance to Anna in that moment, as she closed her enraptured, watery eyes and embraced the sheet of cotton paper, but she knew what she truly wanted to hold in her arms that very second…

Without caring, or even pondering, that the occupant of the bathroom was probably midway into a much-needed shower, Anna charged the door. It flew open without resistance, and steam billowed out into the hallway. Through the sticky veil of mist she stepped toward where she knew the shower curtain was, blinded by the thick steam as well as the passion that was pounding at the sinews of her heart, begging for release. She barely noticed her foot snag something warm…

The cascading hot water in the shower concealed the fact that Yoh was sitting on the bare floor next to the sink. Loud splashes of water muffled his crying, the towel snaked in his lap occasionally absorbing a tear. He opened his puffy eyes and his head nearly collided with the sink behind him. "A-Anna...I…"

Anna stifled a gasp. As she saw Yoh's face up close, her heart sped ever faster. Both of his eyes were swollen with sorrow; the left one was additionally burdened from a nicely progressing shiner. Trellises of vermillion traced their way down his lips onto his chin where blood had coagulated.

"Yoh. I said a lot of stupid things. I was wrong. I'm sorry."

The words were succinct and spoken without betraying any emotion—classic Anna. But her manner of speech was betrayed by her wide, tearing eyes and the lock of black hair she was straightening with her fingers. She gently placed her hands at either side of Yoh's torso, feeling his fine arm hairs tickling her palms as she helped him to his feet. Perhaps it was the steam, or maybe Anna's unbridled passion, but she failed to notice Yoh's towel had been lost on the floor…

"But I guess I was right about one thing." She ran her hand beneath the showerhead and dabbed at the dried blood on his face with moist fingertips. "You were paying attention when they taught us about poetry." Anna's hands slid down Yoh's sides, taking up residence upon his slick back, and he found himself mimicking her, worrying that his skin would blister from the heat she radiated…

Yoh still had not spoken a word. He had simply stared at Anna's face, matching her rarefied affectionate expression with one of shock. He opened his mouth once more, this time certain that words of some sort would vocalize in his throat, but the surprise of her sudden change of heart was too much. He felt the caked blood on his face wash away at her marvelously warm, gentle touch, and now Anna closed her eyes, and he closed his, still thinking of words to say as her tongue lapped at the dried salty rivulets that had trickled from his tear ducts…

Inspiration finally struck him then, as the blood within him neared the boiling point. He felt preternaturally hot, and he attributed it neither to the steam that suffused the room, nor to the passionate tongue that, even now, was lapping up his sorrow. The heat was something else—the manifestation of something that both he and Anna had known and felt furtively for the longest time. His voice was hoarse but he finally knew what to say. He whispered, "Anna…I love—"

"I know," she whispered back. And at that moment Anna's tongue glided across from his cheek to dance upon his lips. He reflexively opened his, and immediately felt as though the roof of his mouth was roasting over a campfire. A pure heat flooded his mouth, one that was both unbearable yet impossible to live without, and as he felt the coolness of her tongue he gasped slightly in relief but moaned softly for more. She obliged him willingly, and Anna could feel, could taste, the longing in Yoh's mouth just as surely as he could taste the contrition in hers. Her top clung to her chest and back, but Yoh, unable to see through the shroud of steam, contented himself with feeling her contours against his bare chest. She felt his every scar upon his shoulders, down the backs of his arms, and then she felt something else, too, a hardness that pressed and pulsed against her abdomen…

They drew their faces back slightly and exchanged meaningful looks. Yoh saw the passion in her eyes, certainly, as she groped around the sink, picking up a heavily creased, hermetically sealed packet from off the top of the poem. But he saw, beneath the bravado she was demonstrating as she tore the packet open with her teeth, something intermingled with the passion…uncertainty…fear…

The heat that crawled over Yoh's skin dissipated almost immediately as he detected the hesitance in her eyes. He shook his head gently. "No. I don't think you're…we're ready."

The uncertainty and fear vanished from her expression. She looked down into the cleft of Yoh's collarbone, and she nestled her head in the warm crook of his neck. His hand began combing her flaxen hair as he continued, "Anna, there's no point in _making_ love when we're both already _in_ love."

It was Anna's turn to grope for words that would not come. They exchanged another set of looks, and neither one looked apprehensive this time, although both pairs of eyes still smoldered with passion…She slowly began to kneel before Yoh, and reached out into the billowing steam, nervous, but at the same time absolutely certain of what she was going to do. Yoh gave a little gasp of surprise but, this time, did not stop her as she clasped her hand around her target and gave her lips a preparatory lick…


	4. Waxing and Waning

Yoh felt the gasped breath in his lungs flutter as delicate fingertips clasped, gently yet assertively, around his hardness. He looked down at Anna through eyes half-closed with disbelieving ecstacy, and saw his expression mirrored in hers, and the object in her hand throbbed with excitement. She caressed it, feeling its veins against her silky palm, and marveled at its perfect size, already fantasizing how comfortable it would be to take into her mouth…

His hands joined hers now in exploring, brushing her hair matted with steam, gliding over the sides of her neck, until they felt the slight coarseness of the garment that interrupted his hands' journey. A shy finger slid under her shoulder strap, followed by another, and then one more, Yoh's eyes never wavering from Anna's. She looked up slightly, and he saw her give a slight open-mouthed nod, as though pleasantly surprised with his eagerness. She stood up slowly to ease his task, and the garment peeled away at his shaky prodding and pulling. He gave an audible gasp when he saw the bare midriff he had exposed, its every slender contour glistening with a delicate pink anticipation.

Yoh stared dumbfounded at the sight of Anna's wondrous physique; he knew only that he wanted to see what lay beneath her lacy black brassiere, and his twitching fingers were next fumbling with the clasp at its back. He serendipitously pushed and pulled it the right way, and it glided to the floor.

He couldn't keep himself from caressing Anna's perfect breasts; they felt incredible in his hands, at once soft and resilient, with a warmth that he could feel wafting off the backs of his palms. He teased the delicate nipples, and there was now a hardness in his hands to match the one in hers. He leaned into her slightly, feeling the indescribable breasts against his chin, against his lips, and against his passionate tongue, until she was lying atop the towel Yoh had shed.

She felt his burning breath against her chest, felt shivers of pleasure trilling in her veins as Yoh's fingertips and tongue swirled around her cleavage, until she felt something else graze her…

Yoh gave a great, shivering gasp of pleasure as he eased his toned thighs around her ribcage, feeling a searing heat against his sensitive inner thighs, and every shallow, palpitating breath Anna took rubbed against him there and threatened to rupture his chest with violent heartbeats. She realized what Yoh wanted to do, and guided his member to the cleft between her breasts. When he placed his palms gently upon them and slid them inwards, he felt the silky warmth surround his shaft. As a soft moan of delight left his lips, he closed his eyes, but he was already blinded with passion, and without needing to think about it he began to thrust, feeling her heartbeat just beneath the steamy, slick skin that was rubbing against his glans.

Anna looked up at Yoh; were his eyes open, he would have seen her mouth agape with excitement. She loosely gripped his hips with her hands, and could feel and see the tension in his abs. Like everything else about him, they were absolutely perfect—not so huge to be a turn-off, yet clearly visible through his flesh. They receded beneath his skin occasionally as he gasped or grunted; Anna trailed her fingers slightly lower and inwards, so that her knuckles were grazing the uppermost region of his thighs, and he moaned quite loudly, accompanied by a quiver that rocked his entire body. She felt the friction upon her chest intensifying, felt Yoh's hands squeezing together slightly harder, and knew what would happen soon.

_Not yet._

She slid her hands out from his thighs and placed them gently upon his own hands. Yoh understood and ceased his thrusting, moving his hips back slightly and bending his back so that his face was directly above hers.

"Anna…" he whispered. He said no more, but didn't need to; in the kiss that followed she tasted the affection upon his tongue. He scooped her back into his arm and stood slowly, bringing her to her feet, and Anna seized the initiative, arcing into Yoh so violently that his lips parted with hers. She returned his kiss, but upon the nape of his neck this time, and her fingers drifted lower in cadence with her lips. Against her tender fingertips Yoh's chest felt immovable, but it rose and fell quickly, excited by the lips and tongue he could feel upon his nipple. But the lips were only visiting; they moved on downwards, dancing upon his ribcage and matting the little trail of hairs below his navel, until—

"Oh, Anna…"

The pleasurably ridged, moist warmth of Anna's tongue lapped down the length of Yoh's steely shaft, culminating at the tip where it licked up a bead of excited, sticky moisture. To her his length was a dripping popsicle, but with a warmth that she could feel radiating upon her face. He looked down, dazed from the new realm of pleasure she had brought him, and met her gaze. Her impassioned eyes were almost beseeching, begging for his feedback, and he willingly gave it in the form of gentle moans and shaky breaths. She felt his steamy body against her quivering palms, caressed his hips, his thighs, his rear, and he responded in kind, ruffling her hair with excited fingers, smoothing out the back of her neck and shoulders…

"Ahhh…" Anna's soft, suckling lips grazed the almost unbearably sensitive tip of Yoh, and his primal expression of his pleasure encouraged her. He tasted slightly salty and felt incredibly warm, and attempted to cool it somewhat with her tongue; but when she did so, he simply took a tiny step forward and grasped the back of her head with a caring yet passionate hand. He gave a shuddering moan of surrender; he placed himself at her mercy, and she did not abuse the privilege. Her fingers stroked what little of him was still not past her lips; she felt tiny droplets of hot excitement dripping against the back of her throat, and she knew what to do to please him to the utmost…

Her eyes watered slightly as she resisted her reflexive gagging; she felt Yoh pull back slightly as he saw her discomfort, but she pushed against his buttocks, insisting, and once again he capitulated, feeling the wet titillating warmth completely surrounding his most sensitive part…As he caught sight of Anna's seductive, innocent eyes once more, a pressure began to build below his abdomen, but rather than relieve it, Yoh felt an instinctive, wild urge to intensify it. His eyes began to dilate, and his vision of Anna's pleasing eyes diverged as his vision blurred with passion, and he thrust into her puckered lips, feeling the pressure strengthening, feeling her warmth creep further and further up his spine. Great gasping moans slipped past his clenched teeth; they both knew what would happen very soon, but their reactions were completely different—

"Oh…Anna…uhhh…oh God…" The pressure was a mere second away from exploding, and Yoh had never felt such pleasure before, but he knew Anna wouldn't want a mouthful of…He pushed backwards just as he felt an indescribable ripple of ecstacy pulse through his entire body, and a stream of white-hot stickiness shot forth. Anna quickly seized his hardness, though, and as it involuntarily continued to spray onto her chest and face, she sucked it as several more twinges of release shot hard against the roof of her mouth.

The fulfilled expression on Yoh's slack face quickly turned to panic and horror as he realized what he had just done. He knelt hastily before Anna and mopped at the sticky liquid that webbed her face and chest. "Anna…I'm sorry, I tried to stop, but you…you were just too…good…"

She looked at him plaintively, feeling the primordial warmth of the goo in her mouth, its powerful saltiness proof that she had finally pleased the man she all too tacitly loved. Then, all too soon, she swallowed it at once, but traces of the salty emission lingered…"Nothing is too good for you, Yoh."

And Yoh, not caring that her face and mouth were still coated with his own fluids, felt an inexorable longing in his heart, at that very instant, to plant his lips upon hers, and it was a testament to his love for her that he did not hesitate when he tasted the saltiness. He was simply too blinded by his passion to care, and Anna hesitated not in the slightest when his still-sticky fingers slid down from her flawless breasts to the waistline of her panties and pulled them downwards…His fingertips felt a coarseness, but slightly beneath it was something soft, with a heated wetness, and though he did not see, and never had before seen, what he was feeling now, he knew he had found the right spot.

Anna's delicate moan was swallowed up by Yoh's hungry mouth, and the heat of her breath against his lips matched the passionate warmth he felt engulfing the tips of his two longest fingers. He worked from instinct, spurred on by the blasts of aroused breath he felt upon his face, and Anna's moans grew more frequent as the moisture around Yoh's fingertips thickened and the joints on his fingers disappeared, and she felt a hard knuckle barely teasing the most sensitive region at the top of her flower…

"Yoh…" If he had drawn his head back slightly, he would have seen her slits for eyes, shut almost entirely with ecstacy. But doing so would have made the kisses much harder for him to deliver, and so he was more than satisfied with hearing the moans that came with every breath now, and feeling the resilient silkiness surrounding his fingertips. He especially liked hearing her say his name, for some inexplicable reason, and his fingers redoubled their efforts…

"Yoh!!" Anna squealed. Yoh descended upon her lips at that very moment, trapping the last of her moans, and he felt her walls contracting against his fingers, and a hot, clear liquid streamed down the side of his palm. Her eyes were completely shut now, but there was no point in keeping them open anymore; the unadulterated pleasure of the moment rendered her completely blind. When she finally reopened them, she saw Yoh's figure, lying on the towel and facing her, with an arm draped upon her side.

She peered into his satisfied, kind, wide eyes and needed no further verification of her feelings for him—and vice versa. A most unusual wave of playfulness descened upon her then, and she herself almost couldn't believe what she said next, but she still spoke the words:

"Yoh…This is what I meant when I said earlier, 'fuck' you."

His eyes narrowed slightly in a cute smile. Neither spoke further, but then again, sometimes actions speak louder than words…


End file.
